That sound feels like an eerie intrusion where it is not supposed to be. It wakes up the part of me that I try to keep buried until things reach this stage.
When it comes to intimacy, this is the first time my mind has allowed me this much pleasure without the interference of my past.
But it seems I can't escape its grip despite how much I seem to be enjoying myself.
That night, and everything that happened, crashed the party, tainting the joy with darkness, leaving me feeling nothing but the fear I felt then.
I tried to force myself through it, but then I felt his hand inside my pants, and it reminded me of his forceful entrance into my cunt, the pain that followed, his heavy grunts as he took his pleasure while I cried in pain, and I knew I couldn't do it.
"Stop!" I begged.
Following my words, a thunderclap rumbles across the stormy sky, followed by lightning that brightens our surroundings and illuminates our features.
Still locked in his embrace, with my mind caught in the harsh grip of my nightmare, I wait for history to repeat itself. I anticipate him taking what he wants, even after I just said stop. But I'm stunned when he stops and immediately releases me, stepping back in the process.
"I am sorry," he says, his tone lacking its usual power and authority—more husky and slightly breathless.
He won't look into my eyes, and I see his fist clenched tightly, as if he's fighting some internal battle.
I remain frozen in panic, waiting for him to scold me, to yell at me for leading him on, for teasing him—to call me a slut, a Jezebel, accusing me of seducing men without following through.
He wouldn't be the first.
But he says nothing. Instead, still standing under the heavy rain, he unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off his body.
A gasp escapes me at the sight of his perfect torso—lean, muscular chest, heavily ridged abdomen, very ridged. I count six-pack abs.
His body is a work of art, and from what I can see, he clearly takes good care of himself.
"Can I?" he gently asks, pointing to my torn blouse to convey his meaning, yet he still avoids my gaze.
Is he annoyed?
I hate it when he masks his feelings, and right now I genuinely wish he would act like the many men I've encountered over the past five years—those who didn't hesitate to show how they felt.
I didn't reject his kind gesture, but turned around to help him remove my shirt.
My body shakes as soon as I feel the touch of his fingers on my shoulders; they were the lightest touch ever, like he was trying not to aggravate me.
His consideration melts my heart even as it confuses me. How can one man change this much within a couple of years?
My heart is thrust into a fierce battle, torn between the man I knew seven years ago and the man before me. Which is the real him?
Sometimes he acts in such a callous and barbaric way that confirms the arsehole I knew five years ago, and other times he is like a gentleman with a heart of gold that makes me wonder if I am dealing with one individual or two.
"Turn around," he says gently, and I do.
I stare at him as he buttons his shirt around my slender frame, his expression businesslike, and his eyes still averted from mine.
Is he avoiding me?
I never thought anything could scare him.
Maybe scare isn't the right word, because something tells me that the man before me doesn't scare easily. It has to be something else that is causing him to hide his eyes from me.
"Why wouldn't you look at me?" I gently question, I am dying to know, and the fact that he's not looking at me is making me feel uneasy.
I feel as if he is mad at me, even though his actions communicate otherwise.
"I can't," he admits honestly, sounding as if in pain; his expression looks tortured, which confuses me.
"Why?" You could hear the frustration in my voice. "Are you mad because I said stop?" I snapped, thinking he was no different than the other men after all.
And that is when he looked at me.
I gasp at the intensity of his stare, at the lust still burning within those luminous ocean pools. The heat within their depths reminds me of the storm raging around us. His pupils are so darkened with need that they are almost back, and the heat?
I could feel their scorching intensity on my face, my body, and every part of me, leaving me breathless.
"I don't look at you because I am trying to keep my control," he says calmly to me. A brief look of pain flashed across his eyes, and they were gone before I could even register their presence.
"You don't know how alluring you look—his eyes run quickly over my frame, taking in everything in a single swoop, with those blue eyes burning with renewed lust—soaked from your head to your toes, wearing my shirt and barely hiding anything," he says, his voice deep with hunger.
The husky tone of his voice, the scorching intensity of his gaze, left me panting and burning with renewed desire. A part of me yearns to toss caution to the wind and beg him to take me, hard on this wet, hard floor, but the sane part of me, the part still thinking, reminded me of the reason I stopped in the first place.
It would be cruel of me to start something again and not finish.
"I am sorry," I apologize, looking down at the ground.
He touches the upper part of my hands, his expression softening. "Don't be. I didn't answer you to make you feel guilty; I was just being honest. Now let's get you out of this rain and home before you catch a cold."
As if to prove his point, I sneezed.
"Oh, Boi!" He exclaims in a jolly tone that rouses a soft chuckle from me, dispelling the tension between us.
We went back to the car and started back home.
"Aren't you going to ask?" I said, breaking the comfortable silence between us. I can't believe that I am not even a little bit curious about it.
"Ask what?" He gives me a questioning look, honestly clueless about what I am talking about.
"Why I told you to stop?"
He doesn't say anything immediately; he returns his attention to his driving. It is still raining, and it is pitch black around us, with our car the only car on the road.
I don't even know what time it is right now.
"Would you tell me if I ask?" He inquires gently, but he doesn't look like he wants to know.
I look away. He is right. I wouldn't have told him even if he asked.
"You see, the reason doesn't matter. You said 'stop,' and that was the only thing that mattered."
I feel tears sting the back of my eyes. My heart squeezes in pain.
What a basket of contradictions.
It is like he was put in this world to torture me. Where was this part of him seven years ago?
If he had shown me this part of him years ago, I would be in love with him, rather than seeking to destroy him, not that I am in love with him now.
"Thank you," I whisper, staring into my lap. I don't want him to see how affected I am by his words.
"No thanks necessary. It is the decent thing to do."
I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time at his words.
Wow! Maybe he is playing a prank on me. Maybe he knows why I am here, and he is messing with my head to distract me.
If that is the plan, it is working.
The following day, I woke up feeling terrible—my head pounding, my nose stuffy, my eyes irritated, and with a fever.
Ryan is a prophet of doom because he predicted my disaster last night.
Last night, after we parted ways, I barely had time to process everything that happened in a single night before sleep claimed me. Luckily, my nightmares gave me a break for the night, then I woke up feeling worse than I did before bed.
I woke up very early this morning. At five a.m., I was already awake. I believe the pounding in my head woke me, and since then, I've been sneezing nonstop. I feel weak and terribly sick inside.
I am tempted to call Daniel, if only I had the strength to pick up my phone. My bladder feels full, but I haven't noticed because I don't have the strength to get out of bed.
The doorbell rings, an annoying sound that interrupts my horrible morning and worsens my headache.
"Who could it be?" I hiss to myself, annoyed that someone is visiting so early.
I know it's not Daniel because he always tells me when he's coming. He knows I hate unannounced visits.
It's not my family either, because we don't speak, and I haven't talked to my friends since the night of the incident.
The doorbell rings again, calmly this time, not impatient like most people do when their first ring isn't answered—just a gentle reminder that they're still out there, waiting.